November
first of November.
I'm playing for hours.
Hours and hours and hours and hours sitting in the seat of the piano studio, clapping, loud banging the keys with my fingers long and trained by the study, but nothing. Not this time. Although
, chained down, I continue my running, discouragement begins to spread through me, as every time, like every year. You can see it: black, this cruel and obstinate feeling down level in the body, like a mushroom ink in a glass of water.
But on forever. I hear you. Notes on notes cascades of notes, notes of rivers overflow, flood of notes with the bombing of the pedal, hardened hands, fingers dead.
Then the door opens!, And my father walks into the room, his eyes bent on a sheet of paper, slowly absorbed in his thoughts.
A blast of heat and cold in the chest of his body, I lose my breath, with a start and continue my play, forgetting his weariness bombarded the keyboard arrangements, sparking the illusion that I grew happy again, fast , and resonates on the keys that I laugh explodes in your mouth, slides of chromatic scales, virtuosity and foolish to hope that happy that she's back, I can suck the joy of misleading
steps up to the shelf,
continuous continuous continuous
hear, feel, look, please look at me, I'm here, felt , listen!
rummage through drawers looking for something, his eyes fixed in the material
not you hear, can not you hear, can not you hear: discouragement continues his work
The laughter starts to fade, kidnapped by an awareness, but the force : Become a mechanical resignation strip to replace the subtle joy. I try to protect it, the core of strength that still shines, attacked by the carbon black black expectancy goes silent, but I still, continuous, stubborn, and I try to turn off the doubt, I try to deny the obvious, contrasting the black spreads within me, fighting a futile battle, a battle wild desperate, with the fury of those who know it will be a loser
Hard Target, mistakes, errors, music does not stop, not subsiding, it loses time, wild and desperate, relentless in the escape from reality, grim reality, the tune suffers and screams of this brutal torture, but not listening, and continuous, ongoing, continuous, continuous
He turns for a moment, distracted, to the piano in the corner.
Light off on that for so dumb and dusty keyboard. The books still there, mummified in the passage of time. One was new, it is still closed, intact. The seat on which no one sits down since then.
has been a long time.
A sigh, then his eyes back in the drawers
And hope turns into a cry, overcome with anguish
no, listen, I'm here, I am, I'm playing for you, Dad, Dad, I'm here
while hands on which almost lose control to the heat begin to fade, slowly
no, no, just one moment, yet a moment, I feel, this time I feel, I am sure, wait, wait, no
fingers , white, still looking for the ivory keyboard, disappearing inch by inch, wrists, arms
silent screams wordless now no longer
foot pedal, disengaging the air
inexorable law of the ghosts, never to be neither seen nor heard
only a trace of invisible black despair, the last to disperse, nothing in nothing intangible in the air dissolved.
There's nothing left of the keyboard.
slow steps, the door closes.
Silence.
